Visions

"A stranger approaches from the east!"

Before the war, strangers were welcome. Now...

"Haste, Marcus."

I hurry along the grassy path leading to the village's center.

The baker is here already, a dusting of flour on his skin. The ironworker clenches a hammer in his hand. The mute healer sits on the ground, herbs spread upon her lap, hair wild, eyes wilder, rocking to a rhythm she alone can hear. Wrapped up in her visions, the healer never sees the world as it truly is.

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